Glaze
by Saucie
Summary: Love. Disguises. Summer, autumn, winter, spring. Aoshi. Misao. Almost.


_Glaze_.

He's so selfish.

Hot summer days, and she can see Himura and Sanosuke with their gi hanging open, sun-kissed skin enticing against linen bandaging. Shiro and Kuro peeling off their shirts, stretching their muscles. Wet cloths pressed to smooth necks, reminiscent of nights sitting up with Okon and Omasu, monitoring soaring fever, wracking chills. Jiya, an old man.

She can see the deep V of sweat-shined skin when Himura turns to face her, she can see the play of muscles when Sanosuke walks too close. They grant the world this so casually, so unselfconscious. They surrender (_share_) a part of themselves so easily.

But not Aoshi.

Aoshi wears his onmitsu clothing, wrapped around him tight, dark like the shadows. Dark in the humid mornings, the sun-drenched afternoons. Dark hair, everyone has dark hair, Aoshi and Sanosuke and Okina, once, and Kaoru and Megumi and herself. Not Himura. Himura is flame.

Her ninja uniform is hacked down to shorts and a shirt without sleeves, and in the summer heat she can imagine nothing else. Ice (_expensive. necessary_) wrapped in soft cloth, pressed against her arms, her face. Aoshi wears another layer under his uniform, high-necked and black, concealing every bit of skin, hugging it to himself as if it is his only, by right. He shares it with no one.

He's so selfish.

He wears his gloves, always, even when the handguards lie discarded in his room. Cut off at the ends, but never frayed. Long fingers, so slow to curl around his kodachi, so quick to move. Hidden. She wonders if his palms are sweaty, and never knows.

His body belongs to him as his thoughts belong to him; he gives no one the pleasure of looking at more than he has to show. It annoys her, on days like this, sluggish and slow, the air weighed down with expectancy. Rain? Who knows. She gives herself freely; legs and arms and smile. Anybody can see, anybody can look – it is who she is, and she is not ashamed. Wistful. Not ashamed.

Autumn mornings in the temple, and she sees soft yukattas and the silk of a sash. Paleness of skin where his neck meets his shoulder, little dip there when he tilts his head. Love? She supposes. She takes it day to day. It isn't about forever.

She hopes it will be, one day.

Cooler, and he wears less, and she doesn't understand him. Light breeze through the trees, colours muted and diffused, and she wraps a cloak around herself some days. Just him and her in the temple. Quiet in the walk back. Neckline low, collarbones showing. Long fingers hidden.

Himura and Kaoru are only summer visitors.

Winter evenings, snow-covered world outside. Fires within, huddling in the restaurant. Okina, tofu, and sake. The trenchcoat is back. He is lost in it. She doesn't see it as selfishness anymore; he needs to be warm, and she is always charitable in the winter. Longer hair, now, falling over his ears pleasantly. Maybe he would visit the barber with Shiro and Kuro. She giggles.

Nothing to be seen in the winter but the sharp line of his nose, the angle of his jaw. Glint of eyes beneath dark hair. Tea for him. Always. Sake for the rest. She has some, it makes her warm, like he does. She wants to tell him that, but she doesn't have the nerve. Cold in the snow outside. She builds things. He watches. She can see his fingertips in the dark.

In the winter, his fingers seem vulnerable.

She wishes she could kiss them.

Dark clothes, white skin. Pale trenchcoat. Snow. Black and white. Grey. She shivers under her blankets. Night sky. She remembers a story-that-wasn't. Himura. Enishi. A woman. Remembers Kaoru's letter. Remembers dreaming.

Spring. Afternoon and evening merging into one long golden-tinted stretch. A few short weeks. Too warm for the trenchcoat, too comfortable for layers beneath his uniform. Freedom. Arms. Triangles of skin. Warm touches around teacups, kodachi. Kunai. _Try this, Aoshi-sama, it's _so_ bad. Jiya made it._ Scrape of skin against skin. Him and her in the Aoiya, in the temple. Him and her and the cicadas. Omasu and Okon and Kuro and Shiro flitting in and out of their existence.

Barely a month and he will put on another layer of clothing, guarding himself jealously. Himura and Kaoru will visit. She knows this. She will think bitter thoughts about selfishness, and autumn will come again, and she will forget.

Love?

She supposes.


End file.
